


A Tale of Two Turians

by ThreeWhiskeyLunch



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Default Shepard (Mass Effect), Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Mention of Character Death, Not Quite a Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 14:24:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch
Summary: Relief is too small a word for what Shepard feels when he sees Garrus (Palavan on fire above them, so close he can almost reach up and burn his hand). He sighs and all the anxiety from the last six months falls away, sliding down his arms to drip off his fingertips. He knows this is only temporary. That the war will come rushing back to embrace him with unrelenting necromancer’s arms. But for now, this is enough.Garrus.Alive.He nearly weeps.He nearly chokes from laughing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DracoCustos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoCustos/gifts).



> Happy SpecRecs 2019 everyone!

His body feels off. His skin too tight when he moves, too loose when he stands still. His muscles function as normal muscles should, but without the same reflex. Muscle memory gone. Shepard stands naked in front of the mirror and surveys his body, wondering if it is indeed his, or something else entirely. It’s not the body he had before, scars gone, ink gone, even his freckles and moles are differently arranged (the moles on his right arm, once nearly in the shape of the big dipper, now just a conglomeration of spots). His skin feels soft, hands and feet uncalloused, new-born and yet, his face too old. Not right.

He leans forward to examine the spot between shoulder and neck, where there had once been a bite scar—  
          _“-I shouldn’t have-” “No, it’s okay-” “It was presumptuous of me. We’re not-” “It’s fine. Shut up.”_  
—-and sighs at the memory, not for what he remembers, but for the fact of the memory in and of itself. Surely there is something of himself in this body, even if he has been wiped clean of any physical nuances from his previous life. His gaze travels up to his hairline, perplexed over the one scar that does remain, cutting through the space between forehead and hair.

Why that one? Just that one particular scar. As if it had somehow been encoded into his DNA. He sighs again, leaning back, shifting on his bare feet (which _ache_ from the run through Freedom’s Progress, blisters rubbed raw and weeping), looking down at the landscape of himself, flexing his hands, feeling each individual muscle tense and release. Everything feels new, even while his exhaustion feels bone weary in a way that makes him feel old. Older than if he hadn’t died.

It’s a disconnect he can’t wrap his mind around.

“Commander Shepard, we are thirty minutes from Omega.”

“Thank you, EDI. Tell Miranda and Jacob to suit up.” He trusts them about as much as he trusts his new body, but they’re all he has at this point. No way in hell is he going through Omega without some sort of backup.

He pulls on his undersuit, wishing he could have said the right thing to convince Tali to come along with him.

——-

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Shepard doesn’t move from his spot on the sofa, words blurred on the datapad in front of him. From the corner of his eye, he can see Garrus’ legs, so much slimmer when they’re out of armor, nearly frail in their thinness. And the spike that juts from the back of his leg, protected by just a thin film of cloth, seems like it would just break off—  
          _“Can I touch it?” “Yes, here—” a hand guides his own down, fingers pressing against the soft spot that connects spike to leg “--there’s a nerve. Sensitive.” And then his multi-toned groan as Shepard’s fingers dance along the nerve ending._

“No,” Shepard says, turning away, back to the datapad.

Regardless, Garrus sits, the soft leather of the sofa creaking. “Ash is right, you know. We can’t trust Cerberus.”

“I know.” He tosses the datapad aside, rubbing the tiredness in his eyes. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

Garrus sets the bottles and glasses he’s been holding onto the coffee table. “That’s why I brought these.”

——

He feels like a thief in the night, suiting up alone, skulking through the ship at zero dark thirty, avoiding any crew still up (there’s a card game in the mess hall, Zaeed and Jack and Thane and Chakwas, Zaeed’s loud laugh as Jack cracks a joke) as he stops to collect Kasumi’s cloaking shield, with promises to return it. “ _Unharmed_ ,” she insists, and he nods, hoping he can keep the promise.

He should have known Garrus would be waiting by the shuttle, arms crossed, fully suited.

“No, Garrus—”

“Like hell you’re going on your own, Shepard.”

“I’ll move faster on my own—”  
          _“I travel faster on my own.”_

“And you’ll die faster on your own, too, jackass.” Garrus steps forward, towering over Shepard.

“Hackett’s orders, Garrus.”

“To hell with Hackett.”

Shepard blinks up at the turian, resisting the overwhelming urge to give in. “My orders, Vakarian.”

He’s not sure which one of them is more surprised when Garrus backs down.

——-

Was it the right thing to send Garrus off to command the second team? He agonizes over it, half his mind on the collectors in front of him, the other half listening carefully for updates over the comm—-  
        _“Change of plans, Shepard. There’s a small spaceport up ahead. I want to check it out. I’ll wait for you there.”_  
The need to protect the turian has become overwhelming of late, especially after the episode with Sidonis. It sits at the back of his throat, an ache that won’t go away. Perhaps one of these days, if they make it through this hell, he’ll have the time to mull it over. As for now, there is only the fight.

There is only survival.


	2. Chapter 2

Hurry and wait. (And wait and wait and…) He hates this part of being a soldier.

Hurry while they travel as fast as possible from this planet to that planet. Avoiding the Reapers. Scavenging fuel from broken ships like orphaned children. (It makes him feel dirty, looting those metal corpses, and yet, they are at war and fuel is harder and harder to find.)

Wait and wait, desk piled high with datapads filled with reports that all must be absorbed into his every pore and all the while planning for the next mission. (He can’t help wondering what Nihlus would have thought of all this. If he would have relished the war, damning the Reapers with every breath while lamenting the lost, completely unstoppable, a force of his own. But he wasn’t unstoppable, was he?)  
          _Blood pooling under Nihlus’ body, the first in a long list of casualties, the reason for a year of sleepless nights. Brilliant green eyes closed forever._

If only he’d insisted Nihlus not go alone.

If only they’d gotten to the spaceport sooner.

If only Nihlus hadn’t turned his back on Saren.

If only.

If only.

If only.

He can’t remember the exact shade of Nihlus’ eyes anymore.

Some days they tend towards blue.

Some days he’s okay with not remembering exactly.

Some days it eats away at him, scavenging the entirety of his being.

——-

Relief is too small a word for what Shepard feels when he sees Garrus (Palavan on fire above them, so close he can almost reach up and burn his hand). He sighs and all the anxiety from the last six months falls away, sliding down his arms to drip off his fingertips. He knows this is only temporary. That the war will come rushing back to embrace him with unrelenting necromancer’s arms. But for now, this is enough.

Garrus.

Alive.

He nearly weeps.

He nearly chokes from laughing.

“You don’t think I’d let you fight this war without me, do you, Shepard?” Garrus asks, in the shuttle, on the way back to the Normandy.

Shepard laughs softly, even while his heart aches. “I wouldn’t want to go through hell with anyone else, Garrus.”

He feels a tapping on his arm and looks down to see Garrus’ gloved hand resting lightly on his armor. “You won’t have to, John.” Garrus’ voice is warm and so lovely to Shepard’s starved ears. “They’ll have to pry me away with one of those crowbars Joker keeps threatening to shove up my ass. It’s going to take more than the Alliance to keep me away this time. And Reapers. And spirits-damned Cerberus. If it’s to hell you’re going, then that’s where I go too.”

The grin that splits his face pulls at muscles not often used anymore. “Garrus, I—”  
 _“Why me?” “Why not you? You are the best humanity has to offer. Your crew would follow you into hell and back. They have already. On Elysium.”_

“Thirty seconds to dock, Commander.”

Shepard clears his throat and looks up, across the shuttle, to find Liara and James’ very interested gazes fixated on the two of them. “Yes. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“You owe me a vacation after this is over.” Garrus removes his hand and leans down to gather his kit bag.

“I’ll take you somewhere nice. I promise.”

Just the possibility of fulfilling such a promise sends a thrill through his body.

——-

Cold.

Alone.

He’s never been this cold, not even in the atmosphere above Alchera. (But alone. Yes, alone. He does remember that and the memory does nothing to ease his mind.) The silence of the water fills him, seeps into his pores. Becomes all of everything and nothing. He fears for one brief moment the mech’s systems failure and he’s plunged unwillingly to the depths of Despoina’s ocean, but then his eyes close and--  
          _“There are things I can teach you about being a Spectre. But I can’t empower your will. That comes from deep within. You’ve already proven yourself. To me. To the Alliance. To those who serve with you. Never lose that spark, Shepard. Never forget who you are.”_  
\--he struggles for consciousness, aware only of stumbling out of the mech and landing on the floating ship’s hard metal surface.

Strong hands grasp at him, pulling him up, holding him as they weave through the fighting Reapers toward the shuttle. “Hang on, Shepard,” Garrus says. “Almost there.”

He feels the mind of Leviathan still on the edge of his thoughts, intruding, nudging at him. He turns into Garrus, wraps his arm around his back, his fingers a death grip. “I don’t want to be alone, Garrus,” he whispers, the words slurring from his mouth unbidden.

“You’re not alone. I’m here. Tali’s here. Cortez—”

“No. I mean...I don’t want to be _alone_ …” He feels Garrus lift him onto the shuttle, setting him down gently, and then everything drifts away, a pleasant, welcome blackness soothing his worried mind.

“If you pull another stunt like that, I’ll kick you into the next galaxy,” Garrus says through the fog that still clouds his mind. “You don’t want to be alone? Well, neither do I, you spirit-damned rachni.” The turian’s anger is a surprising balm, tugging the corner of Shepard’s mouth into a small smile. He lays with his eyes closed, letting the words wash over him. “Never do that to me again.”

____

  
They stand high up on the Citadel, the air completely still and clear, smelling vaguely metallic, unnamable and putrid in a cleaned-by-air filters sort of way. The hum of traffic thrums up from below, making him slightly dizzy if he looks down at the speeding cars. He glances over at Garrus, hands up in the air in jubilation at having bested Shepard in his crazy sniper rifle competition.

_Bested_.

Who the hell is he kidding?

Shepard can feel his face warm at the thought that he’d just let Garrus win, all because of this nagging, persistent, indefatigable _crush_. A crush that’s gone on for far too long. (Even back on the SR1, the wound of Nihlus’ death still too raw, but just there, waiting in the wings for Shepard to one day awaken and grab hold.)

Garrus lowers his arms and grins broadly, which only serve to turn Shepard’s guts to mush. His mind stutters, seaking something to say that isn’t “Kiss me” or even worse “I want you”, but there’s nothing. Only desire and the urgency of a galaxy at war, the press of time running out.

A beer is shoved into his hand and they sit at the edge, feet dangling hundreds of meters above the lake below. “This is a good day,” Garrus says, his subvocals rumbling in pleasure.

“Yeah.” Shepard slides his thumb through the cool perspiration on the side of the bottle, his attention hyper-focused on the path through the beaded water.

“Shepard.”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell is up with you?”

He turns to look at the turian, who’s giving him what he’s come to call The Tough Cop Look. “Whad’ya mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Garrus peers closer at him, as if he were a misfiring piston in that massive gun. “You’ve gone all...weird lately. Something’s tumbling around in that overworked head of yours.”

“I mean...there’s a war? Been kinda distracted by that whole thing.”

Garrus shakes his head, his subvocals rumbling with displeasure. “You can lie to anyone else but me, Shepard. Spit it out.”

Perhaps the entire idea of the war they’re waging makes him speak his mind. Perhaps he’s lonely. Perhaps he just doesn’t care anymore. But for whatever reason he blurts, “How do you feel about...humans?” before he can stop himself.

“As a whole? Egotistical. Stupidly, recklessly brave. Make decent pistols.”

“No, I mean...as a sexual...partner. Possibility. Idea. Ugh.”

“Oh! Well. A bit squishy, perhaps. I’ve never...that is to say…” Garrus flutters his hand in the air. “Which isn’t to say that I haven’t thought about it. Why?”

“And…” His face feels on fire, certain his skin must now be a deep, beet red. “Er. I mean. Do... _males_...trip your trigger? Human males, in particular?”

Silence.

Only the whirring cars below.

Nothing from the turian sitting next to him.

He’s not certain where he rustles up the courage, but he looks over after what feels like thirty years, to find Garrus staring, blue eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Garrus blinks and the look he’s giving Shepard makes his heart drop down somewhere in the vicinity of the lake far below them.

“Forget it—”

“Do you— Are you—”

“It was just a joke, Garrus.”

“I don’t think so, Shepard.”

Shepard says nothing, staring straight ahead of him, willing himself to be anywhere but here. He would never in a million years wish to damage the friendship he has with Garrus, but he had to open his big, dumb mouth.

“Is that what’s stuck in your gizzard?” Garrus asks. And when Shepard says nothing, his face so hot he wishes he could remove it entirely, Garrus’ subvocals rumble and he says, “Oh, Shepard. I never thought—” in such a way that he hears only pity.

_Dear gods, anything but that._

He scoots back from the edge, getting up, stomping--good god, stomping away like a 2 year old--toward the shuttle. “I never should have said anything.”

“Wait, Shepard—”

“And it’s not like ‘Hey, Garrus, wanna quick fuck?’ because, hell I could do that with some random turian, or just...whoever. I want...I don’t have a lot of friends I can trust one hundred percent, you know? Someone always wants something from me, picking away at me, sapping my energy away like I’m some sort of endless energy source. But you never ask anything of me, ok, well, that thing with Sidonis excepted, but you’re always there and I just…” he stops, looking up at the computer generated blue sky. “Ever since I woke up, things have just felt...off. My body. My head. It all feels like everything shifted when I was dead and I missed out and then, being alive again...I’m all off kilter. Even now, things just feel...weird. But when I look at you,” he turns to find Garrus right behind him, gazing down at him with a look in his eye Shepard has never seen before, “when I’m with you, it all seems to just fit into place. I like being with you. I like who I am when you’re around. I like your friendship and I don’t want to jeopardize that, so just forget I said anything and let’s go back to ten minutes ago when we were just two friends hanging out.” He snaps his mouth shut, words suddenly run dry, and squirms silently.

_Way to make an ass of yourself, Shepard._

“You never let me finish,” Garrus says, with a tone that on any normal day would sound amused.

“I--what?”

“What I was _going_ to say was: I never thought you’d be into me. Like _that_. Because I’ve been into you for years. Like _that_. But you don’t talk about your personal life, so I just figured...well...I didn’t know if it was a ‘human’ thing, or a ‘you’ thing. But then, Joker made this comment the other day about you and Nihlus and how you were a ‘thing’ for a little while, and I thought, well maybe, you might indeed like turians _like that_. So I decided, if I got you alone for a while--we’re never alone, just the two of us--perhaps that would sort of...shake things loose, so to speak.”

He stares. He doesn’t know what else to do so he stares. Words tumble through his head, refusing to form complete sentences, so he stares. Garrus takes a step closer and he stares, mouth agape, wondering when Garrus’ face will split into a wide grin. Wondering when he will admit to the joke.

Then Garrus _does_ smile, not his joking smile, not his ‘I fooled you, Shepard’ smile. Instead his smile is kind and soft, his subvocals almost purring and Shepard wonders if this isn’t somehow a dream. A dream that feels too real, Garrus’ hand now on his arm in a touch that sends a thrill of electricity up and down his entire body. He stares.

And then he blinks.

“What?”

“Shepard. _John_. All those times I told you I was in the middle of calibrations. I...it hurt too much, sometimes, to talk to you. Wanting you. And thinking you didn’t, would never, want me for anything other than a friend—”

“Oh,” he breathes, feeling off kilter, his mind not fully comprehending what Garrus is saying.

“You should kiss me or something, Shepard,” Garrus says, his tones infected with humor.

Shepard reaches out, grabbing onto the cowl of Garrus’ armor (the only place his hands have any purchase), pulling him slowly, inexorably down until Garrus’ forehead bumps against his own.

“I missed the bottle on purpose,” Shepard confesses, breathed out on a sigh.

“I know.”


	3. Chapter 3

There is a lengthy moment of awkward silence that seems to hold them in place, freezing his limbs, his lungs (but not his guts, which roil from nerves), his thoughts. It hadn’t been awkward minutes before, when they’d been tearing at each other’s clothes, desperate for the touch of flesh and plates. All mouths and tongues and hands and desperate, panting breaths. Garrus’ sharp, predator’s teeth nipping down the side of his neck. Shepard’s hands seeking a way in underneath clothing that seems to cling to the turian and in an almost purposeful denial of his quest. And then Garrus had pulled away, tugging at his own clothing and Shepard had pulled his t-shirt over his head and reached for the zipper of his jeans, yanking at the suddenly stubborn stiff fabric with trembling fingers.

When he had finally looked up and caught Garrus’ gaze, that was the moment when everything stops (everything but his heart thudding in his chest, pounding away so hard he can feel it in his eardrums). And now Garrus’ eyes fixate on him, scanning over his body, lingering here and there (especially there), his mouth slightly agape, mandibles twitching ever so slightly. Shepard’s eyes do their own bit of ramble around Garrus’ now-fully unclothed body, traveling down and down and--oh gods--stopping to stare at his slightly parted seam, where he can see just the tip of bulbous head beginning to protrude, glossy and dewy and _blue_.

He has to remind himself to breathe.

“Everything alright, Shepard?” Garrus’ voice vibrates the very air and settles deep in his stomach, sending a chill through his body.

He looks up to find Garrus smiling, leering even--though good natured and warm, and the familiarity of it, the knowledge that this is Garrus, his best friend, calms him in a way he doesn’t understand. “Come here,” he says, his own voice husky, cracking with desire and urgent need.

Without a word, Garrus advances, closing the distance between them. “I’ve been doing research.”

“Oh?”

When he finally stops, Garrus is so close. One hand raises to pet down his arm, his touch so light it’s as if his goal is only to smooth over the fine layer of hair of Shepard’s skin. With each movement, Shepard’s flesh responds with goosebumps and he shivers. He places his hands flat against the smooth plates of Garrus’ chest, feeling the ridges and scars of his carapace, running them down until they come to rest at the small, turian waist.

“Indeed. These, for example—” He reaches between them and gently tweaks one of Shepard’s nipples, causing a gasp of surprise and desire to escape from Shepard’s lips. Garrus smiles and moves to flick at the other nipple. “Ah. Sensitive, then. Apparently some humans are not. There’s also this spot,” and he moves his hand up to the crook of Shepard’s neck, sliding his hand along and down to his shoulder. Shepard practically purrs a moan at the touch, arching and angling his neck to allow Garrus full access to the sensitive area. “Also a good spot, I see.”

“I think…” Shepard closes his eyes and leans into Garrus’ space “...we can assume, as far as your concerned, my entire body is just one large erogenous zone, Garrus.”

Garrus laughs, his subvocals rumbling. “You certainly are good for a turian’s ego.” He turns his hand, brushing the back of his fingers down Shepard’s chest and it’s like having warm leather brushed over his bare flesh.

“I have my moments.” Shepard opens his eyes, looking up into Garrus’ brilliant blue ones. He takes Garrus’ other hand in his and steps back, leading him toward the bed. “Come here,” he says again.

Garrus follows.

It’s familiar, and different. Rough plates against soft skin. Long tongue invading his mouth. Claws dig into his back (he notes Garrus must have filed them down very recently, as the tips press, but don’t break open his flesh). Garrus kisses him back, a nudging of his mouth against Shepard’s skin, which isn’t any less thrilling as his warm breath skates along his cheek and down his neck to his shoulder. Sharp teeth nip and pull, also not enough to tear, but enough to send another electric thrill through him with their knife-like points.

He’s never had much of an opportunity to fully appreciate the strength that hides behind Garrus’ plates, but as Garrus lowers him to the bed, one hand supporting Shepard around his back, the other propped on the bed, Garrus thrusts him toward the headboard gently until he lands with a surprised gasp, his hardened cock now conveniently just below the tips of Garrus’ mandibles. Shepard looks down just as Garrus looks up at him, their eyes meeting across the expanse of Shepard’s torso, and Garrus looks every ounce as hungry as Shepard feels. They are, once again, for one split second frozen in place, but then Garrus’ mouth opens and he extends his tongue, longer and longer, dipping his head so he can wrap his fully extended tongue around Shepard, drawing out a strangled sob of pleasure. Shepard’s head falls back against the bed, eyes closing so as to better focus on the sensation of slick and wet and warm tightness, then opening them again quickly as his hips thrust up, chasing more as Garrus’ tongue retracts.

“Goddamn…Garrus. Where did you…?”

“Turian-human porn. Told you I did my research, Shepard.”

He huffs a laugh, reaching down to brush his fingers over Garrus’ crest. “Show me what else you learned.”

And so Garrus eagerly complies.

_____

  
“Tell me about Nihlus,” Garrus says softly.

They lay together on the bed, Shepard tucked in against Garrus’ side, breaths slowly returning to normal, skin and plate slick with sweat. Garrus’ question rumbles around in Shepard’s head and he loses himself in it, thinking back to their brief time together and wondering.

Shepard shifts slightly, the sound of the sheets rustling in the still air. “You ever meet him?” he asks.

“No. Saw him around. Knew who he was. But we never met. Carried himself with assurance. The type that always seemed to know where they were going and what they were doing and didn’t give a flying fuck about anything else.”

“He was...larger than life,” Shepard says after a lengthy silence, sifting through memories. “We weren’t together long, if we had even really been together. But I always sort of knew that the mission, whatever it might be, would always be first. That whatever we were was just sort of...secondary. And not that that was a bad thing. Just the way Nihlus went about the world.” He shifts onto his side, propping his chin on one hand that now rest on Garrus’ chest. “I dunno. It all feels sort of vague now. I have these memories, but they’re all from Eden Prime, or right before when we were on our way there. Anything else is like a dream and I’m not certain if it even really happened.” He pauses for a moment before he says, “There were scars. From being...with him. From his claws. His teeth. But even those are gone now, thanks to Cerberus. Any physical proof of him has been erased. We weren’t...It wasn’t...It wasn’t like this. With you.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, for one, he never wanted this. After sex. Once we were both done, he was up and away. No lingering. No relaxing with each other.”

“And you,” Garrus says, “do you like this? Lingering?”

Shepard smiles softly. “Yeah. I do.”

“Good.” Garrus’ arm tightens around him, drawing him closer to his warm body. “I do, too.”

“Also, I guess...we weren’t friends. Humans have this saying: two ships that pass in the night. You meet briefly and maybe it’s good and maybe it’s bad, but then, that’s it. You never see each other again. Even if Nihlus hadn’t died, I don’t think it would have lasted. And I hope...I mean...I hope for more than that. With you.” Heat warms his face at the admission, but then Garrus grins and rolls gently so they’re both laying on their sides. Garrus purrs, a rumble in his chest that vibrates through Shepard’s chest. Garrus drops his leg over Shepard’s hip and tightens his thigh, pulling him in even further until their bodies are aligned, skin pressed to plate.

“Whatever you want, John.”

Shepard hums, pressing a kiss to Garrus’ keel bone. “You’re not...you’ll never be secondary, Garrus.”

“You can’t make that promise. We’re in the middle of a war.” Garrus tightens his embrace to soften his words. “You don’t know what’s going to happen. Soldier to soldier. We both know the risks.”

“Even so—”

“Even so. We’re soldiers. This is what we do. Fight. And die. So that others might live. For me, this right here is enough. If it’s all we have, then I’ll die happy knowing I had this with you. And if there’s more. Well. Then I’ll die a happy old turian.” Garrus nuzzles Shepard’s shorn hair, a pleasing friction that sends another trill through Shepard’s body.

“I think that’s just about the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“There’s more where that came from.”

“I look forward to it,” Shepard sighs, feeling a languid drowsiness begin to pull at his consciousness.

They lay in silence for minutes, their breathing slowing together as they begin to drift. And then Garrus says, “Want to hear a joke?”

“I...What?”

“Joker told it to me.”

“Oh god.”

“How many turians does it take to change a lightbulb?”

“I—”

“One. Because they’re humorless and efficient.”

He pulls back, blinking up at Garrus. “That’s not—”

“What’s a lightbulb?”

Shepard laughs and pulls Garrus closer while the galaxy turns above them.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't take credit for the joke. I asked my roommate for a "how many turians does it take to change a lightbulb" and they gave me that. And apparently *they* borrowed it from Critical Role. So there you have it.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please check out all the other amazing stories in this year's gift exchange. There are some amazing writers doing wonderful things in there!


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